


Never Once Failed

by orphan_account



Series: Never Once Failed [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Porn With Plot, Romance, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, unestablished johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 2012. Post-Baskerville, The Reichenbach Fall doesn't happen. Sherlock and John are starting to realise how much they depend upon each other, and figuring out what that means for their future. I indulged myself and wrote a lot of think-y bits and case-y bits (not a whole case, but snippets) - I figure there's usually quite a lot of that going on in Sherlock's head! There will be fluff, there will be smut. Will update regularly - at least every few days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, and I wanted to do my best at exploring the characters, and writing them as true to the show's depiction as possible. I'm a 10/10 Johnlock shipper, so of course there's some Johnlock fluff & then smut & then more fluff that'll happen. It'll be PG rated for a while, so if you're not one for some good ol' Johnlock lovin, don't let that put you off yet - you'll be warned in due course. ;)

Sherlock was curled on the sofa, facing the wall. The snow fluttered against the window, and the fire crackled gently. John had set the radio to festive tunes, and had set a mug of tea (still steaming) on the coffee table for Sherlock. How he resented the pleasant domesticity of it all.

 

He was in the throes of 'Post Case Funk', Stage 5. John had made up the childish term - he had actually catalogued Sherlock's disintegration into complete self-destructive boredom and divided it into stages (Sherlock had been equal parts peeved and impressed when John had revealed this to him - John's skills of observation and analysis were improving).

Stage 1 was the obsessive filing of case information into the neat compartments of his mind palace. This could take hours, if the case was a 7 or above.

Stage 2 saw Sherlock narcoleptic, as the adrenaline finally ran out. He was prone to fall asleep wherever he stood, and stay there for at least 12 hours. John had become very good at keeping an eye on him in this stage, after the near-disaster where Sherlock had almost fallen into the fireplace.

Stage 3 was the experimentation - be it at the Bart's mortuary, or - to John's vexation - the kitchen table.

Stage 4 saw the violin make its entrance; discordant mayhem if the case had been below a 6, and something more melodic if the case had been satisfying.

Stage 5 was resentment at the world for its lack of creative criminals. Shorter than usual temper, venomous sarcasm and general sulking characterised this phase.

Stage 6 was where the boredom became outwardly destructive, and objects around the flat began to suffer.

Stage 7, and Sherlock reached for the cigarettes by the tens - or anything, really, he wasn't fussy - to quieten the relentless noise in his head.

 

He was beginning to consider how angry John would be if he carved a portrait of Erwin Schrödinger into the bathroom mirror when his phone rang. It was Lestrade. "This one's right up your alley, Sherlock. In more than one way."

Sherlock got up and glanced out of the window, up the blustery street. He rolled his eyes before deigning to respond. "It's a _street_ , Lestrade, not an alley." 

He ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket before clapping with glee. The mirror was spared for now. "John! A case! Just up the street, number 202 by the looks of it. 21 ideas so far."

John emerged from his bedroom, already donning a jacket over the ridiculous red and navy jumper he kept specially for the festive season. "Oh, good. Nice juicy serial killer for you then?" he said, with only a hint of dry humour. "I was starting to worry for Mrs Hudson's walls if we didn't get one soon."

"No, kidnapping I think," Sherlock pulled his coat on, already halfway down the stairs. "No ambulances," He paused, frowning up at John. "I haven't damaged the walls in months!"

John feigned a chuckle. "Oh, of course, how could I forget? You moved on to the kitchen table last time."

Sherlock shrugged and continued down the stairs, too excited about the case to let John's resentment bother him.

The table had been ugly anyway.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: descriptions of injury as inflicted by somebody else.

"Not _now,_ John. I need to go to my mind palace," Sherlock sat down on the sofa, steepling his fingers in front of his face and closing his eyes.

John stared for a second in disbelief, his mouth slightly open and a frown creasing his forehead. "Right, yeah, no problem. Or maybe," his voice rose, unable to contain his annoyance at Sherlock's sheer idiocy, "I need to clean and bandage every _bloody_ wound that madwoman left you with!"

 

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had endured a beating from a criminal, and it was unlikely to be the last. It wasn't an experience he sought out, but on cases he did have a tendency to value data collection over his own wellbeing.

The pieces had come together 6 hours and 36 minutes ago, when he had deduced the location of the kidnapper's hideout. She had released the hostages unharmed (once she had realised she was losing the cat-and-mouse chase), but fled herself, meaning it would only be a matter of time before the Yard found her. Sherlock was fascinated by this one, and wanted to question her himself - Lestrade rarely (if ever) let Sherlock question a criminal once they had been captured.

So, the only thing for it had been to slip away under the pretence of questioning the priest again. John had raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock waved him away with his best 'I'm-smarter-than-you-and-have-important-things-to-do-so-leave-me-alone' look.

Which his body was now repaying him for, as he opened his eyes and looked up at John from his place on the sofa. He couldn't deny that the various lacerations, bruises and grazes the kidnapper bestowed upon him still stung, to say the least. This one had been particularly sadistic. Her methodology was surely elegant - she had ambushed Sherlock when he arrived at the hideout (he couldn't deny that the booby trap had been very cleverly concealed) and chained him up. She seemed resigned to the fact that the authorities would catch up with her, but was willing to play a game with Sherlock in the mean time. She would answer his questions truthfully, but he would receive a blow for every one he asked.

So naturally, Sherlock was now sporting a cut over his eyebrow, split lip and a smattering of cuts and bruises over his chest, arms and back. He considered it a relatively fair price for the information she had given him - not only names, but locations and details of the various active crime syndicates she had worked for in her 7 years as a crim-for-hire. Bits and pieces that gave him plenty of investigating to be going on with.

When Lestrade's team finally arrived (John, of course, had been the one to figure out where Sherlock had gone - only 3 hours behind Sherlock this time, his intellect was definitely getting sharper), the kidnapper gave up without a fight. Had her fun and was ready to settle down nice and quiet in prison, she said as she offered wrists to be handcuffed.

 

"No John, this cannot wait. The vast volume of data I collected tonight needs to be stored, I can only trust my short-term memory for so long."

John glowered at him for a moment, and folded his arms. Ah. That was the military stance that John employed when he was not willing to engage in Sherlock's nonsense. He looked vaguely comical, the picture of austerity all wrapped up in a big knitted jumper. Perhaps he ought to propose a compromise. "Fifteen minutes, John. I need fifteen minutes to file the most important information. Then you can patch me up." He eyed John carefully. "Please," he added for good measure. John sighed and nodded curtly before stomping away. Good. Sherlock closed his eyes again, shut out the world, and went to his mind palace.

 


	3. 3

Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds had passed, and Sherlock had indeed already filed the most important information away for long-term storage. He was beginning to sort through the details the kidnapper had given him about Australia's corrupt defence minister (he wondered vaguely if Mycroft knew that Britain's closest ally in the Southern Hemisphere was doing underhand deals with the Venezuelans) when he was pulled back to the real world by a sharp, burning heat over his right shoulder blade. The full pain of his injuries bloomed across his body, starting at the source of the heat, up his neck and over his chest, to his throbbing forehead, and he realised how effectively he had been suppressing his physical senses while in his mind palace. He inhaled sharply in reaction to the pain.

 

"Sorry, Sherlock. Disinfectant. Let me get the worst over with, and then you can return and keep filing your bloody data," The words were harsh, but John spoke without venom.

 

John had seen Sherlock injured many times before, but it never made the next time easier. Sherlock's mind was unbreakable - but he thought that Sherlock often forgot his body was not as invincible. The red and purple swellings that bloomed across the pale expanse of his skin and the slashes of red where the skin had been broken caused John an anguish far deeper than he cared to admit. Sherlock was a force of life, self assured to the extreme and constantly brimming with energy. It was distressing to see his physical fragility - it reminded John of how extraordinary his life with Sherlock was, and how easily it could be taken away. Sherlock so often dismissed his body as 'transport for the brain', but without the transport, there would be no brain at all, no adventures, no Sherlock Holmes for John to fret over, admire and run after (and shout at, depending on the day - well, most days, really, but that was just part of life when you lived with someone as out-of-the-ordinary as Sherlock). The thought of life without Sherlock was something he didn't want to consider.

 

John had cut Sherlock's shirt off without him noticing while he was in the mind palace. It was too badly damaged to be worth keeping. Sherlock stayed perfectly still while he worked. John kept the pressure to a minimum as he tended to his wounds. First cleaning and disinfecting, second applying whatever dressings were necessary, then soothing the inflamed areas with cold packs. John's cool touch leached away the pain wherever his fingers moved, and Sherlock sighed with relief when the worst of the cuts and bruises had been tended to. John was always gentle with him, no matter how stupidly the detective had managed to get himself injured. Surely, the sign of a good doctor.

 

When John had finished his work on Sherlock's wounds, he placed the first aid kit on the coffee table and sat on the couch next to him, his hands clasped and his head bowed, clearly exhausted. Sherlock could tell he was going to start asking questions about the case, despite his drooping eyelids. He interrupted as John opened his mouth to speak.

"Thank you. John." Sherlock spoke quietly. The sudden lump in his throat surprised him. He blinked. John looked after him and fixed his wounds all the time. Why was his chest suddenly constricting, his breaths becoming irregular?

"Sherlock?" John's voice was surprised. "You alright?"

"Yes, John, I am _perfectly alright,"_ Sherlock's voice was rough, urgent, and the surprise in John's voice turned to concern as he saw the emotion in Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock, what-"

"I am always alright. Because of you. Again and again, you fix me, _as you always have, since the day I met you."_ He needed John to understand what he himself had just come to realise. Sherlock didn't just enjoy John's company, his intellect (because while Sherlock frequently called him an idiot, by ordinary people's standards, he _was_ actually quite bright), his medical expertise, his awful taste in jumpers, his thrill for The Game, his seemingly infinite store of compassion - he was _dependent_ upon it. Since John had moved in to 221b two years ago, Sherlock had come to rely upon him, _and John had never once failed him._

He was _grateful_ for John Watson.

 

John still didn't understand. Sherlock saw the confusion in the slight crease of his brow and his slightly parted lips.

"Ah... yes, well I do try, I am a trained Doctor, you know," his tone was calculated. He was caught off-guard by Sherlock's lack of composure. "Sort of my job," he added, trying to fill the silence.

 

Sherlock was stung, and it took him a moment of analysis to figure out why. John had implied looking after Sherlock was his job. Work. Of course, Sherlock was not an easy man to live with, he knew that (John made _sure_ he knew that). But this sudden onrush of sentiment and gratitude he was finding himself caught up in made him feel guilty. Did John think of him as a burden? Was he only here because he was addicted to The Game, and Sherlock his dealer? _No_. Sherlock dismissed his negative emotional response.

On balance, John seemed to have a _very_ high tolerance level of Sherlock. Furthermore, when they were in Dartmoor to investigate Baskerville, they had affirmed their friendship out loud - and while Sherlock had very little experience in this area, John certainly showed a genuine concern for his wellbeing that reached beyond his physical health. So he didn't think of Sherlock as a burden, but rather, a companion (which implied sentiment). However, Sherlock's realisation of his complete dependence on John struck him as deeper than mere friendship. While he had no experience with romantic relationships, he did know that they were frequently characterised by shared interests, mutual respect, sentiment for the other, and sexual contact. So far, the dynamics between he and John definitely covered three of those four characteristics. Sherlock quickly formed a hypothesis and a method. His eyes flew open, and he had not realised they had been closed. He turned to face John.

"John, I... er..." he cleared his throat. "I apologise if what I am about to do offends or repulses you."

He barely gave John time to blink in confusion before bringing their lips together.


	4. 4

John was perplexed. One minute, Sherlock had been filing away information in his mind palace, casually ignoring the battering the kidnapper had administered; the next, allowing John to tend to said battering; _and the next,_ he had seemed overcome with some sort of intense emotion - was it gratitude?

He was surely in a bizarre dream. This sort of thing didn't happen in real life - Sherlock Holmes didn't have emotional breakdowns and kiss people.

And yet here he was, doing just that. His lips had barely ghosted on John's at first - an invitation, and a tentative one at that. His eyes watched John carefully for any sign that he had overstepped the mark. When John had closed the distance between them, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

 

The feeling of John's lips coming to meet Sherlock's confirmed his hypothesis. There was nothing scientific about the way the sensation made his breath catch, though. He didn't understand it, but he enjoyed it anyway. He brought his hands up to hold John's face, and closed his eyes. He tasted the mint of toothpaste on his breath, and felt John's teeth bump gently against his own when he smiled.

_Why'd I ever bother denying it?_ , John distantly wondered to himself. The only part missing from their relationship had been physical contact - they were as good as partners in every other way, but neither had ever voiced it out loud, John now realised, for the fear that the sentiment may be unrequited. And now Sherlock had been the one to test the waters. Asexual, emotions-are-useless, I-don't-understand-sentiment, body-is-just-transport _Sherlock_.

He decided he must definitely be in a dream, and really didn't want to wake up.

He leaned up into the kiss, and brought one hand to Sherlock's neck. This extracted a moan from Sherlock, deep and defenceless, and the sound sent a shiver down John's spine. Sherlock deepened the kiss, his full lips eager and his long fingers soft as they caressed John's face.

 

Sherlock was doing his best to communicate to John the depth of his emotion and gratitude without words. He kept his touch gentle as he explored John's face, the soft patch of skin in front of his ear, his jawline, with his fingertips. At the same time, his tongue tentatively touched John's bottom lip. John's reaction was electrifying. He froze as though he had been shocked, but then a moan broke through his lips, followed by his own tongue meeting with Sherlock's. His hands found their way to Sherlock's dark curls and anchored themselves there. His kiss became deep and urgent, and Sherlock found his own pulse rising, his breathing becoming ragged -

"Oh shit, I've split your lip again," John pulled away, blood smearing his own lips. "Sorry, Sherlock, come here -," and he brought a cloth up to dab tenderly at the fresh flow now beginning to run down Sherlock's chin. Sherlock tried to gather his thoughts.

"So - you didn't find that repulsive. Or offensive."

John met his gaze and chuckled.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock could tell it was daylight, about 11am. The gentle beams from beyond the curtain rendered the inside of his eyelids red. He let his mind wander slowly to the pleasant warmth of his bed, and worked his face even deeper into the pillow. He didn't remember getting into bed last night. He must have fallen asleep in the lounge room when John was tending to his split lip. John must have brought him here, like he usually did when Sherlock dropped unconscious post-case.

His eyes flew open. _John_. He kissed John last night. John kissed _him_ last night.

The thought made his chest feel warm - _God, when did I turn into a schoolgirl?_ He rolled over onto his back, and was reminded of the wounds the kidnapper had left. No sharp or hot pain like last night though, just dull aches - all thanks to John's handiwork. John really did deserve more praise than he gave him. 

He rose and showered, then appraised the damage to his face and upper body. Nothing too bad, no unsightly swelling. Some purple bruises - already fading - and a few scrapes from where she had broken the skin. He would be healed completely within a week.

Throwing on his dressing gown over a clean set of pyjamas, he made for the kitchen. He was ravenous. John was sitting at the kitchen table, reading his morning paper. He looked up at the sound of Sherlock entering the room and smiled.

"Morning," he placed the paper on the table. "Yesterday's case already in the news." John offered the paper to Sherlock, who read the article. No mention of the kidnapper's colourful past - good. Lestrade knew when to keep his mouth shut to the press - if he had let slip any of the information Sherlock had bargained for last night, they would lose their head start on the various crime syndicates the kidnapper had told them about.

"Hungry?" John was already loading up the toaster and pulling out their mutually favourite jam from the fridge.

"Very."

Neither made mention of their kiss last night, but it didn't feel like they were avoiding the topic. They ate in companionable silence; John doing the crossword and Sherlock, for once in his life, actually just enjoying his breakfast. He went through five pieces of toast, a whole punnet of strawberries and several cups of tea. After an exhausting case like that one, he needed to refuel.

 

"Bombilate," Sherlock said over his tea. John glanced up at him. "Seventeen across. You've been stuck on it for ages." John smiled.

"What was it again, sorry?"

"Bombilate. To buzz or hum."

"Bombilate?"

"Yes, John, _bombilate -_  so funny?" Sherlock was the one to be perplexed now, as John dissolved in a fit of laughter.

"I don't know anybody else, Sherlock Holmes, that could say the word 'bombilate' that many times in a row and keep a straight face," he smiled at Sherlock, a sort of amused fondness in his eyes. "How are the wounds faring, by the way?"

"Much better. I do have a really excellent doctor, you know."

"Careful, that was nearly a compliment. Can I take a look?"

Sherlock got up shed his dressing gown and grey T-shirt so that John could examine him.

John didn't really need to inspect Sherlock's wounds again - he had taken proper care of them last night, and while they were numerous, no damage was severe. He _did_ need to see Sherlock bare again, though.

John allowed himself to look him over slowly, taking in the details. Sherlock was pale at the best of times, even in summer, but now in the middle of winter, his skin looked as though it could be made of alabaster, not far off matching the snow blanketing the street outside. The bruises and scrapes certainly had calmed, but still stood out shockingly against the vast pale expanse. Sherlock watched John as he cast an eye over Sherlock's physique. He was thin, but not emaciated - he knew enough (and John made sure he ate enough) to keep his body in good working order so that he could keep up with criminals. John thought of a case only last week, where the culprit had thought he could pull one on Sherlock by sneaking up behind him in a hotel foyer. John was on the mezzanine level (one of those bloody fancy places with a double staircase and everything), and only turned in time to see Sherlock disarm the bloke with ease and slam the attacker to the nearest pillar, pinning him by the throat. The murderer was lucky he was wearing a thick beanie and hood - otherwise, the impact with the marble pillar would have left him with a fractured skull. As it was, he got off with only severe concussion. In that moment, John was equal parts in awe and aroused: he had never seen Sherlock look so _powerful_. That idea conjured up certain images, but he put them aside. If whatever he and Sherlock were embarking upon together now went well, there would be plenty of time for that later.

For now though, he settled for moving on to inspect Sherlock's back, before coming round to face him again.

"Looks alright," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as nervous as he felt. God, he was like a schoolboy trying to get up the nerves to ask a girl on a date. He was trying to think of the right thing to say, but no words were coming to mind. How the _hell_ does one proposition _Sherlock Holmes_? He tried to buy time by prattling on about Sherlock's injuries. "That one on your shoulder-blade is a bit nasty, but as long as you avoid-"

"Your pupils are dilated, John."

Ah. Well, at least Sherlock wasn't as bashful as John was.

"Your pulse increased by ten beats per minute when you started looking at my body, and your eye movements didn't seem to focus upon any wounds, but rather the general shape and musculature. I can only conclude -"

Sherlock's rapid-fire deduction was cut off as John silenced him with a kiss. Not a peck on the lips, either - a full blown snog.

He was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of John's advance, and found himself wedged between John and the kitchen bench, John's hands on his hips, holding him securely in place. That fact alone sent something - he wasn't sure what, but it was good - down his spine, and he brought his hands up to the nape of John's neck. John moaned softly, letting his tongue come out to slide between Sherlock's lips. Suddenly Sherlock was like a man trapped in the desert, finding water for the first time in days, _he needed more, he needed to drown -_

John's head was spinning as Sherlock leaned down into the kiss desperately, his tongue exploring John's own with an urgency he didn't even know the detective was capable of. He was so sensitive, so _receptive_. He tasted of jam and tea, and John couldn't resist taking Sherlock's tongue into his mouth and sucking on it, _hard._

The sensation went directly to Sherlock's groin. He couldn't hold in a dirty, open-mouthed groan that rumbled through both their chests, and his hands moved down to John's hips, pulling him closer so that John could feel exactly what he was doing to him -

They both jumped when John's phone rang, loud and abrasive, on the kitchen table. John sighed but broke the kiss.

"Hel-" his voice came out about an octave higher than it usually would have, and he had to clear his throat. "Hello? Sarah, hi. Ah. Um, yep, yeah I can do that. No problem. Sure. I'll see you soon." He hung up the phone and sighed. "That was Sarah. Dr Ellison can't come in today and she's asked if I can take his shift at 12:30... Sherlock?"

Sherlock hadn't absorbed a word John had just said. He had a dazed look on his face as though trying to figure out what just happened.

"Hmmm?" He brought his eyes up to make contact with John's and bring him back into focus. John tried again.

"I have to go into the surgery today, a colleague has just asked for me to cover their shift." Sherlock opened his mouth with an appalled look on his face and began to protest, but John closed the distance between them again, leaning up so that his mouth was an inch from where he could see Sherlock's carotid artery pulsing.

"I'll be home at 6. But in the mean time, you can think about _this._ " His fingers threaded gently into the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull and he licked a long, soft, slow line up Sherlock's throat. Then he latched on and sucked, _hard_. Sherlock made an ungodly noise (he may have been trying to speak, but all that came out was " _Gnaangh_ ") and he had to grab the bench to steady himself.  John chuckled.

"I'll see you at six."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: proper smut ahead!

John's shift at the clinic was tedious. Now that he knew what was waiting for him at 221b, he couldn't stop glancing at the clock,  _willing_  it to go faster. The seemingly endless stream of mundane problems was driving him mad.

 _I think I have a rose thorn stuck in my knuckle, could you take a look Doc? Little Suzie here has been coughing and coughing ever since she ate some sauerkraut, do you think she could have an allergy? I can't sleep very well at the moment, only get about 5 hours a night._ John nearly rolled his eyes at that one. Five hours? He would  _kill_  for an average night's sleep of five hours. God, he was starting to sound like Sherlock. He remembered when he first met him, how shocked he was at Sherlock's dismissiveness of regular people. Now though, he understood. How do people get by day by day, without the thrill of the chase, without saving lives and solving mysteries? He remembered that conversation with Ella all that time ago.  _"Nothing happens to me."_  Well. Things happened to him now. His life with Sherlock was bizarre. Outrageous. Laughable. Insane. Infuriating.  _Real._  Sherlock had saved him from himself, though he may not realise it. He had taught John to live again. And now, it seemed, it was John's turn to teach Sherlock something.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was in his chair when John opened the door. Fingers steepled in front of his face, eyes closed - he was clearly in his mind palace. He had changed out of his pyjamas and into his standard outfit of dress pants and shirt; today, it was the deep purple one, sleeves rolled up to his elbows - Christ _, did he know it was John's favourite shirt? Smug git probably did_. He didn't seem to hear John's entrance, which John was grateful for - he wanted to shower and rid himself of the smell of little Archie Wiggins' vomit.

When he came back downstairs (scrupulously clean), he wore a fresh pair of jeans and a new shirt, navy blue - two could play this game. He mightn't be as tall or angular as Sherlock, but he could still look bloody good if he wanted to.

Sherlock was still in his mind palace. John stood for a moment, then sat in his own chair, watching him - it was fascinating to wonder what could be going on in Sherlock's head at the moment. Was he searching through the details of yesterday's case, making links and neatly filing away valuable information while deleting the redundant? Most likely. John noticed something strange, though. His cheeks were gently flushed -  _that's unusual, it's barely warm enough in here to merit increased circulation_  - and his breathing seemed somewhat elevated above resting rate. John became concerned.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes snapped open, and now his cheeks flushed in earnest as he saw John watching him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.

"You alright? What was going on in there?" John gestured vaguely towards Sherlock's head, indicating his mind palace. Sherlock's eyes widened, before returning to their usual impenetrable gaze.

"Just passing the time," Sherlock's tone was deep, something very much implied in the seemingly innocent words. John felt himself flush as he realised what the detective had actually been doing in his mind palace. Sherlock was studying him, reading his reaction, and a satisfied smirk crossed his lips. There was no mistaking his intentions. It would be too easy now to lean forward, whisper into Sherlock's neck again,  _make him melt_  - but John needed to say something first. He cleared his throat.

"Look, Sherlock. Have you done this before?"

Sherlock frowned. "Done what?"

John breathed out hard through his nose. Trust the berk to make him say it out loud.

"Had sex."

"This isn't having sex, John, this is sitting in chairs looking at each other."

"Yes, but if I've been reading you right  _we're about to have sex_. And I want to know if you've done it before."

"I've never seen a need to before now."

"And you see a need now?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened.

 _"Definitely,"_  His voice was barely above a growl.

John kept his voice as even as he could despite the shiver that was trying to run down his spine. He had always suspected Sherlock was a virgin, but to have it confirmed was daunting. And Sherlock wanting to change that because of John -  _exhilarating_. But he pressed on.

"Exactly how far have you gone with someone?"

"I once kissed a secretary so that I could check her inside coat pockets for her lover's coded receipts. I've since managed to avoid such encounters. You know me well enough to know I don't bother with pursuits of the body, John, I much prefer pursuits of the mind. Well," his tone changed from that of bored indifference to a predatory growl,  _"Until now."_

And before John knew it, Sherlock's mouth was on his, he was being pulled upwards until he was standing, and  _God, Sherlock was a good kisser for all his inexperience_  - but he pulled away, bracing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, slowing him down.

"Sherlock, there is no way in hell I'm letting you whisk this away," he made eye contact with Sherlock, ensuring he was listening. "If I'm going to be your first time, I'm going to make sure you enjoy _every moment of this."_  He punctuated the sentence with a long, slow lick up Sherlock's throat, just as he had done this morning. God, that man had far too much neck to be decent.  _Then again_ , John thought wryly as Sherlock uttered a moan,  _he never has cared much about decency_. He continued to lick and suck softly at Sherlock's neck, and directed him so that his back was braced against the nearest wall. When sure that he was secure, John trailed a line of kisses up along his jawline, and finally, gently, back to Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock found himself, for once, listening to John. He allowed his heartbeat to slow, his breathing to settle, as he eased back into the kiss. He explored John's lips with his own, tasted, took note of texture and temperature. His hands mapped out John's neck, his scalp, the feel of his hair. He noted the way John let out a tiny moan when he traced a single finger down his neck -  _I'll remember that for next time_  -, and the way that sound made his own breathing hitch. Yes, John was right - this was worth remembering. And oh,  _oh_  so was the feeling of John's hands unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall open to expose his chest. John's hands were warm as they traced softly over his ribcage, barely there, a soft tickle that that sent something directly southwards. He had had erections before, of course (he wasn't quite the machine most people thought of him), but it had always been autonomous, never in reaction to someone else's touch. The sensation was curious, a hot ache, a  _need_. He couldn't suppress a gasp when John's fingers met his nipples - he was only gently circling, but the sensation made Sherlock moan, his grip on John's hair becoming tighter. He could feel John smiling before he broke the kiss and leaned up to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"Let me show you what you've been missing," he licked Sherlock's earlobe, before taking it into his mouth to suck at it. How could such a simple act be so electrifying? Sherlock's eyes were blown wide, his breathing heavy again. John drew away, before bringing his mouth to Sherlock's clavicles, nipping and sucking there.

It had been a good long while since John had been with a man, and he was enjoying rediscovering the experience. Sherlock didn't taste sweet, but musky and rich - whatever cologne he used was surely expensive. John noted sandalwood, and something like whiskey. His taste was delicious, and the way Sherlock's body went rigid beneath him was glorious. John turned his attention to Sherlock's nipples - they had been sensitive to his fingers, but how about his tongue? John did not anticipate the great, shuddering gasp, and then suddenly Sherlock's mouth was back on his, hot and desperate and  _God, who was he to resist now?_

John moaned up into the kiss, and Sherlock couldn't resist bringing his hands round to John's lower back, bringing him closer before he slipped his hands lower to grab John's arse, and he could feel John hard against his own erection, and that sensation of heat and lust and need, that John was desperate for him too drove him over the edge,  _God he needed to feel him closer, needed to feel skin, why did he need to feel it? It didn't make sense, he didn't understand but it didn't matter because he was undoing John's shirt, and now John's chest was against his, he could feel the hair tickling and the texture of John's scars, he wasn't kissing John any more but John was doing something, what was he doing? John was kissing his chest, his stomach, sucking and biting and licking, it made him ache and throb, oh God was John undoing his belt? Please, John, please more, I need more, se il vous plaît, de plus, vous avez la clé, John, que faites-vous pour moi? Je ai besoin -_

And as John's mouth slid over down Sherlock's cock, the detective's desperate stream of words choked off. It was the most glorious silence John had ever heard. He knew it wouldn't take much to send Sherlock over, the man was shivering with need. He kept his lips firmly around Sherlock's cock, and drew his tongue in a wet circle around the head. That was all it took. Sherlock's knees buckled, but John held his hips to the wall. The detective's back arched, his eyes wide and head thrown back, a stuttered, gutteral groan escaping his lips, his body convulsing as he came. John swallowed, riding each shudder, until Sherlock stilled. He finally loosened his hold, and let Sherlock slide down the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who has been reading so far, and especially those who comment, fave and follow! It means a lot. Uni's been a bit crazy, so I will update as soon as I can, but it might be a week or two. Stay tuned & stay Johnlocked! x


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: there be smut ahead!

When Sherlock regained consciousness, he was in his bed again. However, this time he was not alone. John was lying next to him, a significant grin plastered across his face.

John watched Sherlock blink hazily as he wrenched himself out of post-orgasm coma. His lithe body stretched out on the bed (naked - John had just let Sherlock's clothes fall off when he had carried him to his bedroom) every muscle relaxed. John had never seen Sherlock let his defences fall away so completely. Even in the times when Sherlock passed out post-case, there was still a tenseness, some sort of alertness about him that went right down to the subconscious. Those times, he was sleeping because it was a physical imperative; a necessary evil. Now though, he was the very picture of peace. John was equal parts puzzled and elated with how Sherlock looked right in that moment. A benign smile (since when was Sherlock benign? -  _Well, since he just had his first and bloody amazing sexual experience, I suppose_ ) settled into his features, and his hand fumbled across the sheets to find John's. When he found it, he let his eyes fall closed and a deep chuckle, genuinely warm, rumbled through his chest.

"Feeling alright?" John rubbed his thumb over the skin of Sherlock's hand.

"Mmm. Endorphins, John, this is excellent."

"You're acting positively human, you know."

"Do forgive me, I'm sure it's just a temporary glitch," Sherlock chuckled again and managed to shuffle himself higher onto the pillows. "John, that was unlike anything I've ever experienced. I don't yet have the words to describe it."

"I have a few words," John's face broke into a predatory grin, and he saw the apprehension in Sherlock's eyes. He came in close to whisper in Sherlock's ear, his hand resting on his navel.

"The way you moan when I'm at your neck -," he moved down to place a platonic kiss on Sherlock's throat, and felt the detective swallow hard,  _"- luscious."_

John came up to face-level again, and Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the dark pools of lust that were John's. He felt John's fingers trace, ever-so-softly, up his ribcage, and his skin prickled.

"How soft your skin is under my fingers?  _Divine._ " Sherlock felt the fingertips slide up to his left pectoral, stopping just shy of the nipple.

"The way you react when I do this?" Sherlock felt his body go rigid as John squeezed his nipple, and couldn't suppress a gasp. John glanced down to Sherlock's cock, which was already beginning to fill out again.  _"Electrifying."_

Sherlock's breathing rate was rising, colour beginning to tinge his cheeks.

"Oh, and the way you tasted when you came?" John pulled Sherlock's hand to his face and sucked the detective's index finger into his mouth while his own hand travelled southwards to grasp Sherlock's cock and squeeze, and the feeling made Sherlock's head spin, it was hot and wet and slick, and  _God, he couldn't help but moan -_

John let Sherlock's finger fall out of his mouth, and returned to Sherlock's ear, his breath hot and heavy. 

 _"Really fucking delicious_. But you know what was the best? The bit I really loved most," his fingers tightened their grip, pulling Sherlock's foreskin in a way that extracted an actual, gasping, yell, "Is the way you  _begged_  for me. And I hadn't even been at you for seven minutes."

Sherlock couldn't take any more, and the temptation of a challenge was just too much to resist. He pushed John back, and rolled so that he was straddling the doctor's thighs (still clad in those jeans - he would take care of that in a moment). He leaned low, mimicking the position that John had been in just moments before.

"John," he was panting already, and could barely hold himself back. "I hope you don't mind," his right hand reached to John's jeans, and deftly popped open the button, "but I need to run an experiment," he pulled down John's jeans, and threw them aside, leaving just a pair of black pants between him and the doctor's straining erection. John's eyes flickered with concern.

"An experiment? Jesus Sherlock, now's not really the time-" but he was silenced by a single, slender finger on his lips.

"Not that kind of experiment, John. I need to test a theory. My theory," he continued, his lips against John's jawline and his voice a silken rumble, "is that I can get you begging for me to touch your cock in under  _six_  minutes. What do you think?"

John tried desperately to clear the fog that deep baritone voice left in his mind.

"Oh, God, maybe that's not such a bad idea," his fingers were already curling into Sherlock's hair, pulling him up to his mouth for a kiss. Sherlock chuckled again, his lips just brushing against John's and his pupils blown wide.

"Not yet, John. I've got some variables to test first."

He started with a kiss to John's neck, and a lick from his jawline to his earlobe. Then, he let his teeth scrape gently up the length of John's ear, and oh  _that_  got a response. John shivered at the sensation. Sherlock moved on to John's chest, kissing and sucking. John was well-muscled, and Sherlock enjoyed the gentle tickle of chest hair on his lips as he explored, worshipping with his tongue. He kissed and licked John's scars from the bullet wound, which elicited another shiver, this time accompanied by a slight moan. That sound sent even more heat to Sherlock's erection, aching for attention, but he ignored it. He had a game to win.

John's pulse was rising rapidly with every new place Sherlock explored. From his chest, the detective had moved on to his stomach, thighs, his knees, all the time ratcheting up John's arousal with his precise nips, sucks, licks. Then Sherlock had flipped him over onto his stomach, and begun kissing and licking John's lower back, his long-fingered hands pulling John's pants down and massaging and kneading his arse cheeks. The fact that Sherlock was focusing all of his being into John's pleasure was enough to make him half-giddy with lust. However, feeling the hot wetness of Sherlock's lush mouth on the top of John's arse crack was the point at which he emitted a loud, helpless whimper, his breathing rate through the roof and his hands grabbing on to the sheets in desperation.

Sherlock immediately flipped him over onto his back again and pulled back, his fingertip tracing ever-so-gently around the base of the doctor's cock. His body was suspended so that his own erection, beginning to drip with precome, was barely an inch away from John's. John's breath was so heavy he thought he may pass out and he was making some very undignified noises, but when Sherlock leaned down to bite his bottom lip and pull, he cracked.

 _"Oh God Sherlock, please, I need to feel you!"_  John's mouth was desperate on Sherlock's and he felt what he was sure was a smug smile on the detective's lips. He didn't care if he had given in, if Sherlock had won, if it meant the detective would put him out of this blessed misery. He was about ready to plunge his to tongue into Sherlock's mouth, but all of a sudden, he was straining but kissing only air.

Sherlock kneeled between John's knees, both his hands running through John's pubic hair before coming together to wrap around the base of John's cock. Thumbs upward and centre, he slid his palms up the sensitive underside in a long, languid stroke. John's eyes rolled back in his head at the relief of contact. Sherlock wrapped one delicate hand around the shaft, and leant down to run to run the tip of his nose up the length, inhaling John's scent. The smell was oh, so erotic, and the skin so soft and _God_ \- he needed to taste it. First, he just darted his tongue out to run between John's bollocks, but then he couldn't resist a long, wet, hungry lave up John's length. The sound John made was extraordinary, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The sound flicked some kind of internal primal switch and Sherlock couldn't restrain himself any further. He placed his hands on John's hips, and swallowed him down as far as he could. It was  _glorious._  He could feel every moan, every shudder, and when John grabbed his hair and pulled tight, he couldn't help but moan lustfully around John's cock, low and dirty and hungry. He picked up his pace, forming a rhythm of sliding his mouth up and over the very tip before swallowing John deeply again and again. John was shuddering and gasping and he was surely only seconds away -

"Oh, _Jesus_ Sherlock, oh God, just wait, just wait -," and Sherlock was being pulled from John's cock up to face level again. John held Sherlock's face gently, despite his own clear lack of composure.

" _Together_ ," John tried to settle his breathing rate before his hand took Sherlock's and guided it between their bodies. John took both their erections in hand and both men gasped at the sensation. Sherlock's hand joined John's, holding their cocks securely together. John's cock was slick and wet with Sherlock's saliva, and the feeling was just too luxurious. He finally lost control of his hips and began to thrust, the feeling of both their hands wrapped around and John's hot, slick erection sliding against his making his head spin. He found himself biting down onto John's shoulder, his eyes closed tight as their bodies moved more and more urgently together, his moans becoming higher and higher in pitch with every thrust, and John's hand was anchored in his hair like he was about to fall off the edge of the planet, and he was saying Sherlock's name over and over, like a curse - or a prayer? The sweat, the heat, the hunger, the need, that hot sweetness between their bodies that was so much pleasure and pain at the same time,  _it's too much, John, I can't -_

For the second time, Sherlock Holmes broke. He shuddered as wave after wave of release washed over him, his choked sobs mingling with John's as together they painted their stomachs with hot, slick come. He could feel John's body arching up into his, he could feel every twitch and shiver, he could feel John's fingers in his hair and John's thighs quivering on his, John's breath settling as he regained control. He could feel John's satisfied sigh as he reached for a flannel and cleaned off the mess they'd made between them, and John's arm settling back over his own shoulders. He realised he was still biting rather hard into the doctor's shoulder, and let go, instead just burying his face into John's warm, soft neck. It was comfortable, as though this crook of John's neck had been made just for him. Here he was safe.

He was taken by surprise when he was overcome by enormous, shuddering sobs, the tears spilling freely and obscuring his vision. What was this, _what is happening?_ He could hear John's concern, the worry in his voice, feel him try to pull away to look at Sherlock, but Sherlock just hung on tighter, keeping John close, his own shuddering breaths shaking through both their bodies and his tears soaking John's shoulder.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you okay?" Sherlock tried to answer several times before choking out "Good. 'S good."

He had never cried like this before. He had been beyond consolation when Redbeard had died, but this was different. His tears for Redbeard had fallen out of heartbreak. This was something else. He felt whole. He had somewhere to belong - or rather, someone to belong with. John was his doctor, his friend, his _home_.

This was dangerous territory, he knew - how many times had he said himself that love was a dangerous disadvantage? John was now his weak point and a potential target for anybody trying to manipulate Sherlock - Moriarty came immediately to mind. But if he was choosing this path, he knew that he was most likely the best equipped person in the world to deal with whatever threat may come. Vigilance was a small price to pay for John's protection. Mycroft, of course, could be made to cooperate. He already had John under protection surveillance, but Sherlock would pull some strings to ensure it was increased. It wouldn't be difficult. With this comforting thought in mind, his breathing settled to a normal rate.

John, clearly encouraged by the return to calm, tentatively tried again.

"You alright?" His fingers stroked through Sherlock's hair. It was a comforting feeling.

"Mm. Sorry. Had an epiphany."

"And what did you realise?"

"That I am capable of loving another human."

John's fingers slowed in Sherlock's hair.

"What? Sorry?" His voice was affectionately goading, but gentle. He knew it was difficult for Sherlock to express such emotions, and directed the flow of conversation to banter: a mode of communication he knew the detective was much more comfortable with. Sherlock huffed, quietly pleased that their dynamic was unaffected by this new realm of their relationship.

"You heard me perfectly, John, I'm not saying it again."

John smiled at that. "I love you too, you berk."

He finally extricated himself from Sherlock's grasp, and came to face him, head on the pillow. The tenderness with which he held Sherlock's face was in contrast to his gruff words moments before, as was the kiss he bestowed upon his lips. When he pulled away, Sherlock held John's hand to his cheek, his eyes closed.

"Will you sleep with me tonight, John? Apparently, people enjoy sharing their beds with their lovers. I'm somewhat dubious, as your snores frequently wake me even with our usual sleeping arrangements, but I like to think I have an open mind."

John rolled his eyes in jest.

"Yeah, alright. Guess I could oblige." He rolled over to turn the lamp off, and returned to lie on his back. His hand reached out and his fingers intertwined with Sherlock's, comfortably linking the two men. He could get used to this.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everybody who commented, faved and followed during the writing of this - your encouragement is lovely! I hope everybody enjoyed my take on the story. I'm sure there'll be more to come! x


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